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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26347726">Only Necessity</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/'>Anonymous</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Warcraft - All Media Types, Warcraft III</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blow Job, Desperation, Do demon hunters get goat dicks? Let's find out!, Don't Do Fel‚ Kids, Fel Magic Addiction, Fuck Or Die, Hate Sex, M/M, Paranoia, Porn With Plot, Psychological Power Games, Sexual Humiliation, Uncommon Euphemisms for Male Genitalia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 04:20:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,710</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26347726</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Upon first meeting Illidan, Kael'thas had wondered how high the corruption went. To his sorrow, he now knew, because of Illidan's insistence on sexual favors to pump him full of the fel magic necessary to survive.</p><p>Or, an answer to that burning question: what does Illidan's package look like after the Skull of Gul'dan?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Illidan Stormrage/Kael'thas Sunstrider</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Anonymous</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Only Necessity</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I had thought this was a kink meme request but if so, I failed to save the URL of the prompt and searching the entries hasn't turned up anything.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Every inexorable step taken has led Kael'thas to this set of moments. Everything done out of necessity, for the sake of his people. And, like the stuttering images replaying endlessly in a broken crystal, every time without fail his thoughts trace the same paths.</p><p>Over a dispiritingly short time, the parts of him that clamor for more have overridden whatever dissenting voices slink about in the back of his head; his pride and his shame powerless to stop him until his feet automatically bring him to the appointed place with exacting precision. Tottering a mere half-step above one of the wretched, too sane to ignore the indignity that forces him to beg for the manner of salvation thrust upon the sin’dorei. Worst of all is the method that… Lord… Illidan insists on for its transmission.</p><p>
The unrelieved tedium of the now-habitual journey up through his lord’s domain must engender these endlessly circling thoughts.</p><p>
Upon completion of this thought, he comes upon the first bit of evidence indicating an overabundance of caution manifesting in the form of a checkpoint. The master of the Black Temple refuses to allow anyone to teleport into his presence; as such, one and all are required to suffer through brainless demons bungling their way through border guard duties. As if he were of the lowliest caste instead of a prince with no kingdom, a member of the ruling council of the Kirin Tor with fewer magi to lead, and head of the desperate remnant of an attempted genocide with no good choices available.</p><p>
This lord disdains Kael’s use of the arcane, despite the hypocrisy of his rise to prominence in the distant past with precisely the same tools to hand. Conveniently forgetting that his younger cousin many times removed is the product of a refusal to bow to silly fears when anyone can see that it took the Legion ten thousand years to make another play at the planet of their birth, and that fel and arcane energies fulfill the same role for the modern incarnation of the highborne. Such fears have gripped the elves for generations beyond reason!</p><p>
Kael reins in his rage with now-habitual ease. He wishes to live. He can bow his head temporarily to a greater power until the time comes to make his move. Fel burns his innards in much the same way as the decades of purported allies shunting aside the concerns of the quel’dorei; he easily hides it behind his typical emotional discipline. Having lost so much so quickly—his father, nearly all of his people—has burned away all else.</p><p>
Even the sight of a council of his own which stands as the last impediment between all comers and the means of his people's survival, forged in blood and promises of retribution, cannot soothe him. They cannot have missed his gaze wandering upward, a vain attempt to pierce the grate, if not the ceiling, and observe the man atop the temple, then continue to lounge with predatory feigned idleness as Kael makes for the summit where his sworn liege lord awaits. Right or left up the steps that split off from the dais, it doesn’t matter. The outcome never changes.</p><p>
This close, he can smell that fading, familiar scent on the air. His body responds in kind, exactly as it has become accustomed to doing.</p><p>
He doesn’t think the council perceives his desperate need. Not as entrenched as they are in the lassitude that comes of their affliction. Silently, fiercely, he orders them to keep fighting it. This won’t last forever. They will endure and soon enough they will triumph.</p><p>
His next steps make him as aware of his surroundings, his respiration, his bearing and everything as the first time he stood alone before the court of Quel’Thalas. Sweating palms and palpitating heart comprise the least of it; he argues uselessly with himself: he can do this. He <i>can’t</i> do this. He can’t stand to do this again. As disgusting and immoral as his younger self would judge him for having business with a demonically enhanced entity, far worse to replace the life-affirming flow of the arcane with fel. And worst of all, the realities of the deal he struck to his own disadvantage. For the sake of prolonging the lifespans of his faithful does he endure the insults, the injury to his pride.</p><p>
It’s only out of necessity.</p><p>
One foot in front of the other.</p><p>
He’s run out of stairs and he doesn’t have the courage for this.</p><p>
The burning fel scent on the wind diminishes slightly, replaced by the musky one he’d been hit with downstairs just moments ago. Kael’s head swims as memories claim his every sense. Long had he known intellectually that fel powers were far more addictive than any other, but what makes this distasteful duty so… enticing? He can feel the shaggy, coarse hairs on Lord Illidan’s thighs that Kael must grasp so a particularly strong thrust doesn’t send him skidding dangerously close to the edge of the temple roof. His lord’s panting, and the pleased rumble almost like a purr when he grows close to release. Tastes melded impossibly together: felfire aflame in his throat, bitterness barely detectable underneath the taste of his essence. Lord Illidan’s personal scent, lingering on Kael’s skin for hours afterward to remind him anew with the odd whiff.</p><p>
He takes a deep breath to steady himself and fights to recall that he retains some little control even here.</p><p>
“I hear you, Kael’thas. Come, let us not delay sating your need,” says Lord Illidan, and in a prestigious dialect of ancient Darnassian. He insists that they speak it with one another, as if the acidic drops on Kael’s tongue will burn away his knowledge of what the high elves had believed to be a dead language. That precise articulation, that accent: no other elf, not even one of the naga, savors each word like Lord Illidan does.</p><p>
Steps in a dance, a performance they put on like clockwork figurines locked into their roles. And still Kael is taken aback by how quickly his approach was apprehended. He schools his face to prevent the laying bare of his true emotions before whatever eldritch sense replaced Lord Illidan’s vision.</p><p>
“Lord Illidan—” Kael says to acknowledge his invitation. He stops, not wanting his true feelings to belie the practiced voice of a consummate politician. He is no prepubescent catamite.</p><p>
To close his eyes against the mammoth hybrid towering over him does nothing to dispel the memory of goatlike legs and ripped webbing between the wings on his back. Always these details jump out at him; distractions to avoid dwelling overmuch on his fate. This time he chooses to focus on the self-inflicted scars ritualistically incised in Lord Illidan’s skin, and the faint glow they give off under the perpetually dim skies of the valley. Better to think on the man before him and not the pitifully few elves among the milling multitudes below, each hoping for their leader to intuit a genius plan, a miracle to lead them out of this nightmare.</p><p>
He’d stopped at a respectful distance from the self-styled Lord of Outland, and not just to put off the moment in which he will be asked to perform. A shudder wracks him, and he cannot say whether it is for revulsion or desire.</p><p>
Unbidden, his jaw drops open like that of a hunting cat questing for a scent. Coming at full power now, the most recent hit of musk nearly sends him to his knees. Kael’s hands scrabble at his stupid robes, telegraphing his desperation for relief.</p><p>
Lord Illidan’s chuckle brings him out of the haze. “Look at you, eager for that which you would have spurned only a short time ago. Life continues to surprise us all.” For emphasis, he caresses the bit of dangling cloth that hangs over his trousers and obscures whatever coils beneath. It’s base, salacious teasing, and Kael cannot look away, cannot conjure a drop of saliva in his suddenly too-dry mouth.</p><p>
The next line of the ritual Lord Illidan insists on comes to his lips easily: “I serve at your pleasure, my lord.” A rote recitation if ever he’s had to summon one.</p><p>
As always, the lecherous creature is ready for Kael. He detaches the green covering that acts less like a loincloth than its positioning would suggest, revealing the bulge straining against the front of those unsightly ripped trousers he won’t be put off wearing. He undoes the catch and peels aside the top edges of the cloth so that what is held within can unfurl. Kael can barely make himself think the word ‘cock’ under most circumstances but this particular example troubles him with questions he dares not ask. Unlike some of his acquaintances, his duties as prince never led him to waste his time husbanding livestock; he couldn’t possibly know whether a goat bears the same… apparatus. And only recently did satyrs reappear from the halcyon days of the highborne’s dominion over all the land, not that he would order one stripped live or dead to investigate the similarities.</p><p>
Although—the former kaldorei <i>does</i> refrain from removing his pants as if his paranoia rules him. Who knows what might come upon them while they are indisposed? Kael files away the thought for later detailed examination. Nothing lasts forever.</p><p>
Lord Illidan’s blasting rod is long. Encompassing both the sacs dangling below and its base up the first third is a thick, hairy sheath. From that point extends the somewhat thinner middle section in dark violet flesh that blends disconcertingly well with the shadows under his midsection. And finally, the focal point of Kael’s turmoil: it stretches for two-thirds of the total length while its girth thins and the final segment bends downward at the center before thickening once more into a bulbous tip quite unlike those Kael has seen to date. Not anything designed for the contortions to which bipeds put themselves; no, this is the tool of a quadruped which must mount its chosen recipient from behind and extend into the receiving end in order to deliver its sustaining payload.</p><p>
Kael has never wanted to fondle and play with another’s accoutrement this badly, panting with half-unconscious desires that flash past him too quickly to remember. No self-respecting high elf would admit to such unseemly desires, let alone confess to acting on them. In other political climates, such a sordid secret could destroy him.</p><p>
But the instrument of his people’s survival fills his vision; he’s crossed the intervening space unaware of having moved.</p><p>
“Go on,” Lord Illidan hisses through clenched teeth. It’s as close as he’ll come to admitting to being painfully erect.</p><p>
Kael grips the furred stem with both hands, pulling it down by degrees so he won’t need to stand on tiptoe to keep it from ramming his hard palate. Almost in reply it twitches, a not-quite-endearing move since it’s predicated on a voluntary effort. His hands barely meet around the base, which is always a little daunting. He’s no naga, rumored to possess the ability to unhinge their jaws at will. He’s overheard claims Lady Vashj’s soldiers are extra welcome in the Den of Mortal Delights because of it, though reportedly they refuse to teach outsiders.</p><p>
He wets his lips. The moment of truth never arrives without second thoughts but at least Lord Illidan hasn’t rushed him since the first time, when he wrapped those long fingers around the back of Kael’s head and married mouth to member with a push. He has to work up to it, starting with a touch of his lips to the tip where the fel energies concentrate and make his mouth and throat tingle.</p><p>
That makes the next step less harrowing when it’s a natural progression. He gives it a lick. A second twitch wordlessly urges him to go on.</p><p>
Unfortunately, Lord Illidan is the kind of man who likes to talk while receiving oral. Some days, it’s a one-sided recitation of the latest troop movements and updates on defenses at enemy fortifications, others a long-winded description of the plans he has to maximize the transfer of fel energies between them. Some of his fantasies are relayed in such lurid detail that Kael prays the day never comes when they may be brought to fruition.</p><p>
Today is one of the latter category: he hits his stride describing the idea he’s had to create a crystal transmission device in the shape of a butt plug. The description of the hours it will take to smooth the outer matrix so no jagged edges remain to poison Kael’s blood with an overdose of fel receives loving treatment in particular, more so than the far more crucial calculation of how much fel energy can be stored within. He waxes perilously close to poetic describing his fantasy of inserting it in Kael’s posterior one morning before ordering Kael into the field for an extended campaign in which he requires it to be left in place all day. The very idea of unadulterated fel working its way into his bones over the course of a day hardly excites Kael. Of particular note is the hint of longing in his voice when he describes wanting to journey out to Kael’s location in the field one morning and watch Kael insert the crystal while they partake of the privacy of his personal tent.</p><p>
Just how much time does this lecherous old goat spend refining his fantasies instead of brainstorming a way out from under the Legion’s control?</p><p>
Unlike run of the mill acts of fellatio that don’t involve the transfer of enervating magic, the flow starts almost immediately. Whereas arcane magic reminds Kael of the sun’s pleasant warmth, this is a swampy-tasting amalgam akin to the bitterly foul medicines shoved down the throats of sick children. He reminds himself that the benefit outweighs the alternative, though he’ll be put off solid foods for many hours to come. Like syrupy goo it flows, nearly choking him, before he falls back into the rhythm that lets him express it properly. And it burns; by the Sunwell does it burn, like a flow of lava coursing out into his veins. When the fire burns itself out in a few hours, it will leave behind not ash but usable mana—and tremulous muscle spasms as a side effect. Like the glorious rebirth of a phoenix, Kael will rise in the early morning to apportion sustenance to his people, though by methods he deems less effective and less humiliating.</p><p>
He can tell Lord Illidan is approaching his climax when his words change from dreamy fantasy to shade into speechifying: “There are only those who fear power and those who seize it, young Kael’thas. I knew you for the latter from the first.”</p><p>
Next time, it might well be grandiose promises.</p><p>
Kael can’t reply to any of it, too focused on powering through the pain in his cheeks and jaw from maintaining constant suction. His sight is drawn to the contraction of Lord Illidan’s sacs even as the vein under his fingertips twitches. Definitely nearly over; a groan from high over his head corroborates his conclusion. And any interruption to the monologue is welcome.</p><p>
“Tyrande…” Illidan moans softly. Not for the first time, and Kael must swallow this and additional insults.</p><p>
Warm, salty liquid fills his mouth. Kael releases the suction as a final torrent of fel magic accompanies the emission, heady and intoxicating. He pumps the shaft for every dribble he can siphon, swallowing convulsively. Another day of basic survival achieved.</p><p>
When Illidan begins to shudder from growing oversensitivity, Kael finally relinquishes the shaft and steps back so those massive hooves under the black-furred legs don’t squash him like an overfed manawyrm. He wipes surreptitiously at the corners of his mouth while his benefactor takes a few heaving breaths to get himself back under control.</p><p>
“Thank you, my lord.” The words burn almost as much as fel but there are forms to follow.</p><p>
The Lord of Outland nods distractedly and waves him away. Next time, Kael will request a translocation pad with a launching site be constructed outside his quarters. Lord Illidan will never agree to it, of course. He likes Kael constantly humbled.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I cannot make fluff happen so here's hoping you enjoyed wallowing in the angst. Let me know if so!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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